


dress yourself to kill

by screamlet



Series: A Study in Scarlett (Johansson et al.) [1]
Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Background Relationships, Banter, Celebrities, Drinking, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bandicoot? For real?” Chris asks as he looks over in the wrong direction entirely. “Let’s go punch some names off him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	dress yourself to kill

**Author's Note:**

> **withthepilot** and I were at IHOP and for some reason I said, "I just really want to read about the three of them having celebrity adventures together and maybe they beat up Benedict Cumberbatch." So this is the one where (among other things) they beat up Benedict Cumberbatch. 
> 
> And now with a sequel: [**a spring fling**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/604394).

**SAG Awards, 2013**

Scarlett wakes up on the floor of someone’s living room with Jeremy’s arm thrown across her stomach and her leg across his. It’s strange how not romantic this feels, like, in the slightest, but that could have something to do with the drool drying on his face and her arm. 

Her legs are propped up on Evans, one of his hands wrapped around one of her calves and his other hand on her thigh. Also not romantic, but Chris snores with the bass of a dance club and he’s probably going to die alone or sleep in separate beds from his wife, Nick-at-Nite style. He’s so _pretty_ to fuck, though. That’s his tragic flaw, she decides.

Jeremy’s flaw, she knows immediately: too worshipful. Too devoted to her. He’s the one she would call for bail when—

Unless he was in a cell with her.

Like last night.

“Did we beat up Benedict Cumberbatch?” she asks the two manloaves draped on her body.

There’s a really familiar laugh and a couple of less familiar ones, so Scarlett sits up and ignores Jeremy’s snuffling for the moment.

Clark and his wife _JENNIFER “BABY” GREY_ and their daughter are sitting at the dining room table, lined up on one side, watching her with a set of eerily familiar smiles, which goes with the married-and-combining-gene-pools thing, she supposes. 

“Oh, did you ever,” Clark says. He has such a sick, twisted non-laugh that makes Scarlett cold in the pit of her stomach, even though she adores him and she has a feeling she’s going to have to adore him even more from here on out. “Did you ever,” he repeats, nodding and sipping from his cup of coffee without lowering his eyes from hers.

*

It’s really a blessing that the collective cast of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, particularly _The Avengers_ , is such a cool, responsible group, all of them consummate professionals, thoroughly over gossip and scandal to get their names out there. Even “the youngins”, as Downey calls them (Scarlett, Evans, and Tom called such because they were still “hip and happening”, i.e., unmarried and without kids), were the best crop of actors any studio could ask for, all of them devoted to their craft—and Chris’s _mom_ is on Twitter and they _follow each other_. They make Wonder Bread look bad (though that’s because they’re also so very, very white). 

Then the 2013 SAGs happen and it’s kind of a perfect storm, really.

Evans (he used to be her main Chris, but then Hemsworth came along and it’s so much more fun to yell _YO EVANS_ across set or into his ear, even as he patiently reminds her that he’s one of like 19 Evanses and she’s probably enjoying herself too much) is in full Captain America beefcake-prep mode. He’s not at terminal meatiness yet, but he’s getting to that stage where he polishes off the entree in one breath and looks ready to throw his plate on stage to see if that gets him another.

“I need these root vegetables to be stuffed with tiny steaks,” he says as he picks at Clark’s plate.

“Hey,” Clark protests.

“Shut up,” Chris replies. 

Scarlett sighs and sips quietly from her champagne. She’s going to have a classy evening with these jerks, and she’s going to make it through the night without having to hide a grease stain from—

Jeremy drops some olive oil soaked radicchio onto the flared hem of her dress. She looks down at the dark stain, then looks at him. He hasn’t noticed.

“Asshole, look what you did,” she says.

“No one’s looking at your feet, babe,” he replies.

She pours her champagne out all over his salad while the rest of their table (Chris, Clark, JENNIFER GREY 80S TEEN HERO DANCING BADASS IN HER OWN RIGHT, Cobie, Tom’s empty seat, and an empty chair for Joss who networks his beard off while they eat) looks on in silent horror.

Jeremy takes a bite of his salad and says, “The champagne improves it.”

“Waiter,” Scarlett says to someone bustling over her shoulder. “We’re going to need another?”

“Another...”

“Entree for the Thing on my right—”

Chris looks disgruntled, but he looks up at the waiter and nods in agreement. She smiles at him as he glares at her; she’s not sure if it’s because she brought up _Fantastic Four_ or because she deliberately called him the wrong superhero. The waiter doesn’t seem to care, though.

“And another bottle? I spilled mine. On his salad.”

“Totally not on purpose, either,” Jeremy adds, “But you might want to tell the chef that a champagne reduction would really—”

“Please, thank you,” Scarlett interrupts, heaving her chest just enough for the waiter to notice and run off. 

Jeremy’s also on a new diet where he spills half his meal at all these dinners on Scarlett. They have dinner a lot, actually: award show dinners and pre-show dinners and regular friend dinners and double dates with their boyfriends, and somehow this routine keeps him fit. She’s going to eviscerate him, though, and that will definitely make him lose those last five pounds he’s been mumbling about for the past seven years.

Scarlett’s contributions to the perfect storm? She misses her beautiful dumb boyfriend; lately she’s seen these people around the table a little too often for her own comfort; and she’s allergic to half the things in this salad. Her appetizer for the evening is champagne, which goes to her head on a good night but tonight has already camped out in her head with pom-poms and shrieking.

“What the hell,” Cobie says. “Tom’s betrayed us.”

Chris looks over his shoulder, sees Tom sitting with a bunch of Brits, and turns back to Cobie. “If he’s defected, I get his plate. Pass it. This is a caloric emergency.” Clark’s wife passes it along, looking a little concerned like she wants to feed him vegan protein shakes before he chokes down another heavily sauced lump of meat, but she restrains herself. Scarlett polishes off Jeremy’s glass of champagne despite his protests and watches Jennifer, who definitely has the look of someone hoarding protein bars in her fashionable clutch like the granola mom she is. This might be love.

“Aaaaaah,” Clark says. “He’s with the Sherlock people. And Doctor Who. And the Hobbit. That’s _the hobbit_ on his lap. _Bilbo Baggins_ is sitting on his dick.” Scarlett tilts her head as she watches Clark rub his eyes with the heels of his palms and moan quietly to his wife, “Help, this is happening.”

“On Tom’s lap?” Scarlett asks with newfound interest. She doesn’t see or hear from Tom enough to figure out his life situation—his most profound romantic relationship she’s witnessed during the past two years was with an alarming number of Chili’s grilled chicken sandwiches in New Mexico. He texts Kenneth Branagh _a lot_ (NEWSFLASH: **KENNETH BRANAGH TEXTS** ), and he has too many inspirational books in his trailer to be in a committed relationship with another human being who would put up with that shit. The enigma deepens, Scarlett thinks as she watches Tom laugh and wrap his arms around teeny tiny Martin Freeman while Bandicoot Krispykreme rumbles on like Alan Rickman with none of the charm.

“That guy is in _everything_ lately. What do people see in him?” Chris asks. The new bottle of champagne arrives and the waiter pops the cork. Chris double fists water and a fresh glass of booze, then joins the rest of the table in not-so-subtly staring at the other table. 

“His voice,” Scarlett answers. 

“Yes please,” Jennifer answers.

“Thirded,” Clark adds.

“I don’t really care about that Sherlock thing,” Jeremy says. “Guy solves mysteries. We’ve got like, nine _CSI_ s on TV, don’t we?”

Clark stares at him like he’s not real and Jeremy stares back because oh, _he is_. Scarlett holds out her glass for a refill and Jeremy obliges so as to look away from Clark’s killer glare. 

“I wanna see something he’s in but I hate _Star Trek_ ,” Chris says. 

That sets off the eternal _Trek_ or _Wars_ debate that Chris and Clark are stupid enough to get into almost every time they see each other. Scarlett yawns and motions to Joss’s abandoned plate, which Jeremy passes over because she’s having her own caloric emergency like, right now.

*

Scarlett has pulled out her phone during the ceremony's home stretch and edges her chair closer to Chris so they can decide what parties to hit up together. Chris is single, her boyfriend’s off in New York this weekend while she’s soaking up the exposure and awards, and Jeremy looks put-out that he’s not included in their pow-wow.

“Don’t be,” she tells him as she scrolls through her email too fast for Chris to read anything. “You’re grossly indecisive and you’re going to go home to your man at like, 12:30, tops.”

“Hey,” he protests. “I could stay out late, too.”

“If we seal you in carbonite first,” Chris replies. He puts a hand on Scarlett’s suddenly to stop her scrolling thumb and he asks, “That’s not an email forward from _Sean Penn_ , is it?”

"That's what it looks like," she says. "Actually, it's a list of practical ways to dispose of a nosy co-star's body within two miles of my house, so we should totally go to my house afterwards."

"We need to go somewhere we can blend in, get really drunk, and then stumble back to our cars without groping each other so no one gets it into their heads that we're a hot new couple," Chris murmurs as he looks at Scarlett's list again. 

"You could do worse," she replies.

“I _am_ doing worse, you know I am,” he says. He rests a hand on her shoulder and tries to get at that email again, but she snatches the phone away and shoves it into her clutch.

“We’ll go to one of the big magazine parties, then,” she replies. “Nothing says _cutting edge of pop culture journalism_ like luring celebrities into a dark, loud room full of alcohol and seeing what happens.”

“I never thought of it like that,” Chris murmurs. “That’s ingenious.”

“And with that,” Clark announces, “We’re getting the hell out of here. Don’t do anything I can use as a cautionary tale for our daughter.”

“You bet we will,” Jeremy says.

“You’ll be out for twenty minutes before you’re calling a car to take you home,” Clark promises. “Hear me, you two? Start a pool. I have 20-35 minutes.”

“You can’t take _all_ those minutes; that’s prime Renner fading time,” Scarlett says. “You’ve gotta pick: 20 or 35.”

“You guys have no faith in me,” Jeremy says. “Just wait. I’ll outlast all of you. At the end of the night, it’ll be me and the janitors, having the time of our goddamn lives.”

“I pity those janitors,” Chris sighs. “They’ll never know what hit them.”

“Thirty,” Clark decides.

“I’ll take 25,” Jennifer adds. She nudges Clark and says with a nod to Jeremy, “Look at those lids. Drooping already. That’s _I want to snuggle with the babies under a duvet_ drooping.”

Jeremy rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone, probably to ask for permission to stay out and do some dumb shit he’s too old to do.

*

Clark interrupts the story to say, “By the way: you owe me.”

“Bullshit I do,” Scarlett says automatically, even though she does, probably, if only for the floor on which to sleep their drunk off. 

“I have a text from Chris that says: _32 minutes and Renner nodded off. Name the prize_. _Do you want him instead?_ ”

“Well, do you?” Scarlett asks.

“Where would we put his dogs?” Jennifer wonders. “Also, his boyfriend.”

“Thank you for going straight for the dogs.” 

“They are _really_ cute dogs,” she replies.

Their daughter brings Scarlett a mug of coffee because she’s a sweet, empathetic goddess who must have seen the suffering in Scarlett’s face from sleeping on the floor among some gross dudes and smelling like the inside of a bottle. She honestly does wonder how Clark’s daughter will turn out when she’s being raised by two uberchill liberal dorks who are disgustingly supportive of her and each other, and figures it’ll involve a lesbian commune at some point. Then she can move back to LA, become a staff writer on some shows, and work this morning’s lesson into a CBS sitcom where the role of Scarlett is played by someone really matronly who shouldn’t be this hungover, even though Scarlett’s only 28 at the moment.

“Are you gonna puke?” their daughter asks, probably because Scarlett forgot how to focus her eyes and might have been staring at her for much longer than needed. “The bathroom’s down the hall—”

Scarlett puts down her mug and nods a quick thanks before she rushes off in that general direction, covering her mouth with both hands. The rest of the night has come back to her in a rush of specialty shots, tequila, and something that tastes like cardamom but might be bits of her charred lungs fighting their way out of her body.

*

Tom walks on some empty chairs across the emptying SAG dining room/staging area to talk to her, Chris, and Jeremy. He lands in a display of some pure Robin Hood shit, even putting his hands on his hips, and says to them, “My dearest lovers. Hello. I’m back.”

“Ooh, Tom is drunk,” Jeremy says excitedly. Cobie and Joss have already run home, as have Clark and his wife, so it’s the three of them now heading towards Scarlett’s car. This, though? Drunk Hiddleston? They have to stop for this.

“Stop,” Tom purrs; even Scarlett can’t be cynical about it because drunk Tom is _the best Tom_ , and this is Tom before he becomes drunk-smoking-and-dancing Tom, with moves like a motherfucker. He only needs a couple more cocktails and the perfect song to get him there and dammit, Scarlett will make this happen. “Dears. Yes. Hello. Hi. I think Ben and I will go to the Vanity Fair party. Please come. Please? Would you please?” He lays a surprisingly heavy hand on Scarlett’s bare shoulder and says, his eyes way too focused on hers, “Ben would so like to see you again, darling. Please come.”

“Fuck yeah, Bandicoot, let’s go drink him and the hobbit under the table,” Chris announces.

“Oh, don’t,” Tom says, his other hand moving to Chris’s shoulder, Scarlett thinks probably to stop him from swaying at this point since he has the overall mass of a dandelion. “He’s quite sensitive about his name.”

“Seriously?” Jeremy asks.

“No, of course not, mock away,” Tom laughs. He draws himself up and grins at them with all the wide-eyed insanity a bucket of champagne could buy him. “So. We’ll see you there, yes? Yes?”

The three of them nod and Tom claps, quotes some Shakespeare, and runs off, having a very loud conversation with his British friends across the room as he goes.

“Drunk Hiddleston is the closest thing to a unicorn on this earth,” Chris says. “It’s... so beautiful and unbelievable?”

“Ugh, the English thing doesn’t hurt, either,” Scarlett says as they start moving again. “Like, oh hello, I’m here from olden times, and I come bid you: get totally trashed with me and dance to some six-hour trance beat a fan from Berlin mixed for me on her computer.”

“Shit, I remember that,” Chris laughs. “That was horrible in the best way.”

It takes far, far too long, but they make it to that party and Crumplesnatch is holding court at the bar with the hobbit and Tom, a nerd collective if there ever was one. Scarlett approaches and already hears an intern squealing about how it’s _the best of British_ , trying out more awful headlines until Scarlett has to will herself not to listen.

She honestly hasn’t seen Benadryl in years, not more than nods and smiles across crowded rooms, since they’ve—well, since their careers have gone where they have. Tom, though, leans forward dramatically, grabs her wrist, and pulls her in past the hangers on and into their inner circle. His arm goes automatically around her waist—again, in that totally friendly and sweet way Tom has, drunk as he is, he won’t even “accidentally” cop a feel. _What is his deal_. 

“Now,” Tom says, “Who _doesn’t_ know Scarlett?”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the hobbit says. “Martin, and you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, am I right?”

“I pay people to _not_ tell me that, but thanks,” she laughs as she shakes his hand. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve seen better,” he laughs. She raises her eyebrows at him and he laughs again. “It’s a joke! You’re very above average.”

She’s pretty sure she’s being negged right now; she would be offended if it wasn't such a good barometer when she meets as many people as she does. Will the person try and win her over with respect and friendliness, or will they playfully insult her to show off how discerning and post-celebrity they are, and therefore worth her attention? Martin takes a long sip of his drink and gauges her reaction. She must look more flushed and buzzed than she is. She smiles sweetly, the slightest hint of cold at the edge of her mouth, before she presses up against Tom some more and looks over at Benchwarmer, also drinking quietly. 

“And what were you gentlemen talking about?” she asks.

“The usual,” Tom says. “Talking absolute crap about everyone we know.” He’s _effusive_ when he drinks so the words slide out and lord, he spits a lot, forgetting that he’s not actually performing so he can stop projecting and talk without drooling, dear, please. “Would you like to hear all this juicy RADA and LAMDA gossip?”

“Not really, but I think it’s unavoidable at this point.”

“No, no, of course not, come on, BENEDICT,” Tom yells even though Bagpipes Frumpington stands no more than six inches from him. “Catch her up on your entire life of the past three years. Tell her everything. Tell _me_ everything. Oh.” Tom’s hand leaves Scarlett’s waist and comes to rest squarely on Ballyho’s chest. “Are you happy, Ben? I know for a short spell you weren’t. Are you happy now? How’s your father? Do you still—”

“Tom needs another drink,” Martin says.

“Is this uncomfortable for you, Martin?” Tom asks. “Is there something you’d like to talk about? We’re all friends here, all of us.”

Blarneystone looks over his glass at Scarlett, drinking with his eyebrows climbing into his hairline. She nods, her eyes widening enough to make him laugh. He points to his glass and then to the bar behind them, but finally he nudges Tom out of the way so their conversation doesn’t interrupt Tom searching for Martin’s soul.

“What are you drinking?” he asks, but she tells the bartender her order before he can do it for her. “That answers that,” Beneful laughs. “How have you been?”

His voice really is like almond butter, so rich and intoxicating she can think of that time she ate an entire jar of almond butter once over the course of one weekend and made herself completely sick. Weird associations to form of her co-star, five years after they worked together, but here they are.

“Been good, doing really well,” she replies.

“Oh clearly,” he says. “What’s next for you?”

“I’m in New York doing a play right now,” she replies. “For a few more weeks. Then I fly back and start shooting the next Captain America movie.”

“You’re in that, too?” he asks, and he looks impressed. “I did like the first one. No. Which one did I see?”

“I’ve only been in _Iron Man 2_ and _The Avengers_ ,” she replies.

“Right, I saw _Avengers_ when I was working on Trek,” he nods to himself. “You were very good.”

“Thanks kindly,” she replies. Her drink arrives and Blandstone edges her a little further down the bar as they both hear Tom say, “But do you still _miss_ your father?”

“Of course I do,” Martin sobs. “Who _doesn’t_ miss their father? And—and—what if I’m not there for my own son? Does he miss me? Tom, you don’t know what it’s like, the—” Tom’s already in with a hug, though, wrapping Martin up and holding him tight.

“We should...” Blendercup says.

“Yeah, let’s just...” Scarlett says, “Edge over... down here...”

*

“But _why_ , Scarlett, didn’t we get together years ago?” Barnacle slurs more than a couple of drinks later. “What was stopping us, when we liked each other so much?”

“Did we, though?” she asks, because she sure as hell doesn't remember this spiritual connection they apparently had while filming that one movie like _five years ago_.

“ _I_ thought so,” Bladderpuss says, a little surly. “Didn’t you?”

“I was engaged, you moron.”

“Well yes, we were _all_ engaged, in some sense, but—”

“I was _literally engaged_. To be _married_.”

“Yes, but.” Barnburner looks into her eyes with what he must think is a beautifully pensive look. Actually, it skirts the edge of glassy-eyed wasted, and isn’t nearly as charming as he thinks it is when she’s trying to convince him that, yes, she was _really_ engaged. Wait until she tells him she was _actually_ married. “What’s that, you know, what’s _all that_ , when there’s this attraction between us?”

“SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” Scarlett says. _That_ is her personal WARNING: EVACUATE phrase. “HOLD ON, I PROMISED EVANS I’D BLURGH BLURGH BLURGH.”

“Oh, of course,” he replies because he’s so out-of-it she didn’t actually have to make words and too polite to ask what the hell she just said. He’ll stand at the bar and puzzle it out while she escapes.

She finds Chris and Jeremy at an abandoned table. It looks like they’re trying to drink each other under said table, so she sits down for the proceedings.

“Heyyyyyy, baby,” Jeremy croons at her. “ _I wanna knooo-ooooow_ —”

“ _Would’ya be my girl_ ,” Chris sings along. “Every time I see Jennifer, I get that song in my head.”

“You are unbearably precious, both of you,” she says, totally sincere. She cups Jeremy’s face in her palm and kisses him quickly, then scowls because his lips taste like the worst tequila available mixed with tons and tons of sugar. “What the hell were you guys drinking before shots?”

“Ummmmmm, more shots. These waiters walking around had shots on trays and I can’t say no to shots floating by on trays, you know that,” Jeremy protests.

Chris’s fingers dance across the lips of all the shot glasses and she remembers what she came here to say. “GUYS,” she shouts to get their attention. “I LOVE YOU BOTH. SO MUCH. THANK YOU FOR NOT BEING ASSHOLES.”

“Did someone say something to you?” Jeremy asks. “Go sic Captain America on them. I’ll get a bottle to smash over their heads. Your best defense is a broken bottle to a vain person’s face.”

“No, no _breaking bottles_ , and no one _said anything_ , just those drunk assholes Tom went to Shakespeare Academy with being awful people,” she replies.

“Bandicoot? For real?” Chris asks as he looks over in the wrong direction entirely. “Let’s go punch some names off him.”

“I get Kumquat,” Jeremy says.

“Shut up and finish your drinking, both of you,” she says, grabbing a glass and joining them.

“Mm, okay, “Chris says, “But then we’re gonna beat the shit out of Kumquat.”

It’s hard for people to remember that Scarlett isn’t perfect. _She_ knows she’s not perfect. She’s made mistakes—she makes them every day. Since most of her life at this point has been up for dissection in front of the media, she can be overly defensive, even to people she’s known for years and genuinely likes. Of she, Chris, and Jeremy, she has the most immediate charm and _that_ is a problem because charm sometimes spirals out into being snide to reporters about how stupid they are for not thinking of a better questions to ask her than _so was your costume hot OBVIOUSLY IT WAS HOT but was like hot hot_? She’s stubborn, a little mean, and thinks everyone has a skin as thick as she does when that’s not even close to true.

And sometimes she does stupid things because she misreads a situation and doesn’t think about what will happen next.

Like when she laughs at Chris and says, “I _DARE YOU_.”

Chris laughs and they all hop on board the bad idea train, next stop: the Vanity Fair party’s parking lot.

*

Many drinks later, they’re out in the parking lot going home and Chris spots Tom and the hobbit propping each other up as Bamboozle’s car pulls up. 

“HEY BANDICOOT,” Chris yells out over everyone’s heads and cars. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“...home, I would think,” he genuinely answers as the three of them walk over. Scarlett’s shoes are off and one of them is hanging off Jeremy’s fingers by the strap—oh great, her other one is in Chris’s hand, heel out in Bananaphone’s direction. “Do you need a ride? We—”

“No I think you wanted to start something in there,” Chris yells. They’re up to the car now and Scarlett laughs because this _won’t happen_ , yet Chris is yelling and puffing up like he might actually hit another person.

“Should I get in there?” Jeremy asks. “Chris can’t actually throw a punch that someone hasn’t choreographed.”

“Yeah, get in there, bite their ankles,” she laughs.

“Short jokes are mean,” he says a little sadly, but then he goes to Chris’s side and the two of them, yeah, _they can yell_.

“Look, I don’t know what you—”

“Come on, final showdown, right here right now,” Jeremy says as he tosses Scarlett’s shoe over his shoulder so she can catch it. 

She doesn’t. It’s fine. 

“Avengers versus—shit, what the fuck, I can’t even remember what your fucking face has been in, Kumquat. Holmes!”

“And hobbits,” Tom adds. “And the final frontier!” Scarlett stares at him and Tom grins back, apparently so drunk he’s gone around full circle back to sober.

“We can take you,” Chris snarls. “I’m fucking Captain America.”

And apparently, it’s been the kind of night where Bandersnatch has had too much to drink, had his feelings manhandled and manipulated by Tom a little more than he’s comfortable with, and then hit on Scarlett to no avail, so it’s the kind of night where he undoes his bowtie and says, “Come on, then. Let’s make this colonial.”

“Yes, do it for the queen!” Tom yells. “This is what being British means!” Tom says to Scarlett over Blimpiechin’s car, “I’m being completely sarcastic. Ben should have infected you with syphillis or burned down this entire city by now, if we’re playing Empire."

“I boxed at school!” Binderclip yells to no one, getting closer to Chris and Jeremy than he should, probably.

“You made dioramas, dear, not the same kind of boxing,” Tom calls out. 

For a split second, Scarlett thinks maybe Tom actually is the Norse god of mischief, come to a party to make a dickhead cry into really expensive scotch and get London’s lizard creature It Boy beat up in a parking lot like it’s prom (according to people who have gone to prom). She shakes the thought, though, because Loki wouldn’t laugh as hard as Tom is laughing now, one of his arms around Martin’s shoulders as he laughs into the top of Martin’s head.

Of course, then Martin bends over and throws up on their side of Bindlestick’s car. Tom distractedly murmurs _there there_ as he rubs Martin’s back and watches Chris and Butterscotchcrumpet circle each other, Jeremy at Chris’s side and making Britainpalooza very nervous with his sudden moves.

Scarlett thinks this might be edging towards _too real_ and then Chris slams the first punch into Bisquicknugget’s chest. Chris throws back his head and laughs, and Jeremy throws himself against Barfington before he can punch Chris in the throat like he was aiming. Jeremy gets punched in the back a few times, but does a quick turn around and shoves Binghamton Cakewalk IV in the kidneys towards Chris. Chris isn’t fast enough to block, so he gets an anemic fistful of wholesome British curds in the ribs. Scarlett sees some of the kids from that ABC show stepping in to try and stop the fight, but once they see it’s Chris, one of them yells “EVANS” and they all run for it. 

Overall, there’s a lot more incoherent colonial trashtalking than Scarlett expected.

Buttcanoe groans as Jeremy throws him against his closed car door; he slides to the ground and that’s when they all instantly sober up, except Tom, who continues to laugh like he’s discovered laughter cures cancer. 

“Oh shit,” Chris says. “I killed Khan.”

“ _I’m not Khan_ ,” Barracuda groans.

Security finally interrupts once all the pasty rich white kids are done yelling about tea versus coffee and Blatherfart stands up, showing signs of life. People actually _applaud_ , which Scarlett thinks she should find revolting, but so it goes.

“We’re gonna have to bring you in,” says the one actual cop who was allowed in among all the private security. “You, too, Ms. Johansson.”

“Yeah, I figured,” she says.

The three of them are led towards a squad car amid way too much applause and first aid rushes over to Bucketlist’s car to make sure he’ll live to deduct again. She doesn’t think it’s because anyone actively _disliked_ His Pastiness, but more because this was the most exciting awards show any of them had ever been to since that Oscar night when they all played the part of millionaires affected by the recession.

“No hard feelings!” Chris calls out as they climb into the back of the squad car.

“Next time, challenge me to a squash game,” Bonerdick calls back. Scarlett gets into the back of the car after Jeremy and marvels that people are _eating this shit up_.

“If anyone asks and we find ourselves telling this story again,” Jeremy says when they’re locked in the back of the squad car, “Lie, okay?”

“You beat up that bowl of cottage cheese for me,” Scarlett laughs.

“Oh yeah,” Jeremy says. “We should have told him that at some point, huh? HEY. Can you roll down the windows and—”

“No,” the cop says.

“Man,” Jeremy sighs.

*

“Then I passed out from all that excitement,” Scarlett says. “And I woke up here.”

Clark looks at his daughter and says, “In retrospect, this is probably something we shouldn’t have let you seen.”

“Well, honey, now you know what not to do in public, ever,” Jennifer says.

“I know,” Scarlett says, a little wistful, before she realizes Jennifer was probably talking to her daughter.

“ _Guys_ , I’ve been to school dances,” their daughter says. “That’s basically what that was.”

“Jeremy is definitely a perpetual 14-year-old boy,” Clark agrees. 

“Oh god, my back,” Jeremy moans from the floor. “What happened. What happened to my back.”

“Easy, Bourne, there’s ibuprofen coming to you,” Jennifer says. “Is Captain America dead?”

Chris rolls over, looking his usual precious self, and Clark sighs a little like he’s fallen in love all over again. “So when’s brunch?”

“Whenever you want,” Clark says. “You’re all lucky Joss is a genius and spinning this as _our stars and Benedict got a little too playful after the awards last night_ , rather than... whatever ridiculous story you told me.”

“Okay, and can anyone confirm that Tom might actually be a Norse god and married to a horse?” Scarlett asks. “I’m pretty sure he Loki’d us last night.”

“He’s definitely laughing at us right now,” Chris says as he scrolls through his phone. “He sent me a text that’s just _hahaha_ for like, an entire screen.”

“Text him back: _what would Branagh do_ ,” Scarlett replies.

“Okay, get up and make yourselves look human. We’re going to brunch and then you’re never coming into my house again,” Clark says.

“That sounds like a dare,” Jeremy says as he sits up and isn’t paralyzed.

“NO IT DOESN’T,” Clark yells back.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Notes:**  
>  \- Thanks for the read-through **lanyon** and **zlot** and **withthepilot** <3 and for laughing in all the right places.  
> \- Don't tell Chris Evans's mom this is here.  
> \- Title for the series ( _Dress Yourself to Kill_ ) comes from the Who's "Eminence Front." Forgive me, Roger Daltrey!  
> \- Scarlett Johansson is a woman born in America in the mid 80s, so I'm going to assume that she belongs to the 98% of women in that age group that worship Jennifer Grey for any of her nine thousand amazing movies but especially _Dirty Dancing_. Relatedly, the song Chris and Jeremy sing is Bruce Channel's "Hey Baby" from [this scene](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_nLFHUIl9o4) in _Dirty Dancing_.  
>  \- Jeremy Renner not knowing (or caring) about _Sherlock_ in any incarnation is informed by [this](http://the-ruffian.tumblr.com/post/29896258941) [part](http://svael.tumblr.com/post/29879728143) of the gag reel. Namely, if you don't know shit about _Star Trek_ , why on earth would you care about _Sherlock Holmes_?  
>  \- Here's a video of celebrities declaring their allegiance for [Star Wars or Star Trek](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=gZl6mQ_c7zo).  
> \- The story of [Tom Hiddleston and the Chili's grilled chicken sandwiches](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUvoEuswqrM). And here he is [dancing with a cigarette](http://lochtness.tumblr.com/post/23589586843).  
> \- I don't actually know if Kenneth Branagh texts. Maybe he just yells across oceans. He's got the projection for it.  
> \- I read way too many celebrity profiles and that works its way into the RPF I write. In this chapter, "the kids from that ABC show" who think about interfering in the fight but then run away—that's a quick reference to [this Chris Evans anecdote](http://nymag.com/arts/tv/upfronts/2012/happy-endings-2012-5/index1.html) (4th par.) from the guys of _Happy Endings_.


End file.
